


the beast you've made of me

by missrainydays



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, F/M, Graphic, Knife Play, Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2015-05-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:48:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3920071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missrainydays/pseuds/missrainydays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Detective-Inspector Jack Robinson learns to behave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the beast you've made of me

  
_If you could only see the beast you've made of me, I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free_  
_screaming in the dark, I howl when we're apart, drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart_  
_the fabric of your flesh, pure as a wedding dress, until I wrap myself inside your arms i cannot rest_  
_be careful of the curse that falls on young lovers, starts so soft and sweet then turns them to hunters_

 _Like some child possessed, the beast howls in my veins_  
_I want to find you, tear out all of your tenderness_  


 

**********

 

“And that's when I knew that he was the murderer.”

“Based on the stain on his collar?”

Phryne Fisher tossed her head and flashed him a sly smile. “Of course, Jack. Wasn't it obvious?”

Detective-Inspector Jack Robinson sighed and crossed his legs. No, not really. But when was he ever keeping pace with her? “So that's another case solved, then?”

Her chin dropped several centimeters and she was looking up at him, still with that same coy smile. The two of them were sitting in his office at City South, he behind his desk and she perched upon it, the two of them enjoying their customary nightcap of lingering glances and unmentioned heat, crystal tumblers and whiskey. He couldn't exactly pinpoint when this routine had taken root in their lives, growing stronger and deeper between them. But now, it seemed that a case was not truly closed until he was looking at her from over the rim of his glass.

He sipped his drink and held it on his tongue, waiting for her to ask him to escort her home.

“I don't feel like going home just yet, Inspector,” she replied casually, reading his thoughts. “There's a public house not far from here, and I hear they have an excellent selection of bourbon.”

“Oh?” Jack raised an eyebrow, wondering if this was the invitation he had been (secretly) dreading and waiting for.

She was still smiling, but more innocently now, and Jack felt his resolve start to steel. “I was wondering if you'd like to accompany me? There are still a few details of this case I am... I want to discuss with you.”

He wondered if this public house was suggested to her by her red-ragger escorts, but did not ask. With a calculated nod, he replied “Lead the way, Miss Fisher,” gesturing to her and placing his empty glass on his desk. He hoped that he would be in before Constable Collins to place it back in his desk drawer, but something in the depths of his mind told him that there was a good chance he would be inexcusably late to work the next day.

Not fifteen minutes later, Jack Robinson was following her up a set of stairs and through a dark corridor in a less than savory part of town. The bar was small, dark, and intimately filled with small wooden tables and chairs. A number of pairs sat amongst them, leaning towards one another and talking in low, hushed voices. The man at the door smiled at Phryne and frowned at Jack, (and she greeted him with a sultry “hullo, Walter” as they passed) which gave him the distinct impression that this man had once been a guest in her boudoir, but was now sizing up his competition. Jack paid him no mind.

They took a seat in a dark corner, secluded and partially obscured by a large column. She ordered them both a drink, and then turned her fierce eyes upon him, deep green and darkened by dilated pupils.

The two of them went over the case again, no small detail left unresolved. Phryne was speaking quickly, and he had to lean in close to hear her, the smell of whiskey on her breath and the french perfume on her neck filling the small space between them. He nodded and corrected her when necessary, sipping glass after glass of whatever smokey drink was brought to him until his eyes started to get bleary and his voice rough. At some point in the evening, she had begun to stroke his hand with her middle and index fingers, and her foot was now running, slowly, up his calf.

“Miss Fisher,” he said, low and breathless, gripping her wrist.

She blinked at him, eyes suddenly wide. “Yes, Jack?”

“This is starting to get too dangerous.” He swallowed, his throat suddenly dry.

Phryne smiled prettily at him. “Come on, Jack, just a little fun?” She pulled her arm away from his grasp, and was now leaning back in her chair, smirking.

“Phryne, I-”

She was leaning forward, pulling his hand towards her and placing it gently on her thigh. “Say no, Jack. Say no and we won't speak of this.”

He squeezed the tight muscle of her thigh, hard, his breath coming in short, shallow gasps. He could feel the blood begin to flow molten in his veins, the skin on the back of his neck crawling with anticipation. She was giving him a choice- allowing him to choose whether he wanted to submit to her. He had accepted that he would be two steps behind her, he had allowed himself to be constantly at her whims; so why not succumb to her, physically, as well?

With another swallow of his dry throat, Jack Robinson made his choice.

He gripped the back of her neck tightly with his free hand and pulled her towards him, catching her lips in a bruising kiss. She kissed him back with equal fervor, hands ghosting along his belly, his chest, his shoulders and arms. He forced his tongue past her lips, and she nipped at him, and he could feel her lips turn up into a smile against his face. He apologized by stroking small circles on her neck with his thumb, just below the juncture of neck and jaw.

“Jack,” she moaned, breathless, her eyelashes fluttering against his cheekbones. “Come home with me.”

It wasn't a question, and Jack knew that he could not deny her if he tried.

She lead him by the hand out the door, past the scowling doorman (“Good night, Walter,” and Jack, cocky, nodded at him in spite), down the stairs, and out into the cool night. Jack's head spun with the scent of her perfume and the expensive bourbon, barely comprehending the cab that she flagged for them or the ride to the Esplanade. Even before his marriage, as a young lad, he had never felt so giddy with anticipation. As a grown man, he wondered if he should feel ashamed by it, but as Phryne unlocked her front door and glanced over her shoulder at him with half-lidded eyes, he knew he didn't care.

They climbed her stairs and quietly entered her bedroom. She closed the door behind them and slid the bolt into place, locking it. He made a mental note to thank her for that in the daylight hours- he wasn't ready to be discovered in her bed by her staff in the wee hours of the morning just yet.

“Jack,” she said again, and he pressed her against the door, pushing his hand beneath her blouse to get a handful of her small breast. He bit into the soft skin below her ear, suckling at it, hoping to leave a mark there for any other hulking doormen she might meet.

“Jack-” She pressed against him, trying to squirm out from where he pinned her.

He silenced her with a kiss, forcing his tongue past her lips. She made a small groan, then bit him, hard. Blood filled his mouth, and he sputtered. “Christ, Phryne-”

A sharp pain raced up his side, and his world pulled into focus, everything suddenly bright. Phryne pressed the tip of her dagger into his flesh, her eyes wide and her skin gone pale. “Do not get rough with me, Jack.” Her voice was dripping venom, a poisonous tone that he had only heard her use once- to Rene DuBois.

“Phryne, I-” He felt her pull the knife away from the sensitive skin of his rib cage, but he did not move.

“This is my house,” she interrupted in a low voice, almost a growl. “When you come into my house, you do as I say. Understood?”

He nodded, putting his hands up between them to show his submission. He wanted to reach out and touch her, tell her he didn't mean-

“Undress.”

Jack did as he was told, removing his hat and coat, and she took them from him and placed them in a heap on the floor. He began to undo the buttons on his vest, then the clips of his braces, then loosened his tie. She watched him carefully, looking very much like a cat with a cornered mouse, her fingers still stroking the handle of her dagger. As he started to undo the clasp of his trousers, she reached out, touching his arm tenderly. He could feel the heat of her breath on his face, the warmth of her slender arm against his bare skin.

“If you don't want to go on, Jack, just say the word.” Her voice was soft and tender, almost apologetic.

Almost.

He leaned forward and kissed her, softly, on her swollen mouth. “I am yours to command.” He paused, holding her gaze. “I always have been.”

“Good.” she purred, holding his gaze. “Now. Continue.”

He bent over to remove his shoes and slipped his trousers and smalls onto the floor. It had been some time since Jack had been exposed and nude in front of a woman- not since Rosie, God help him- and he felt suddenly overcome with shame. He was no Russian dancer, to be sure, and surely Phryne would find him plain and unremarkable in comparison. Self-consciousness coursed through him, rattling him to the bone. But the way her eyes raked greedily over his body reassured him, the hunger there unmistakable. She reached out, fingers stroking down his chest to the place where his hip joined with the hard muscle of his thigh.

Phryne smiled, still fully dressed. “Perfect. On the bed.”

Jack did as he was told, sinking down into the soft mattress and allowing the sensation of her satin bedclothes to overcome him. She stood, towering over him, drinking in the sight of him. His cock twitched, half-erect, and he watched her eyes linger there.

She undressed, slowly, her eyes fixed on his as she pulled her gauzy blouse over her head, removed her skirt, her brassiere, her underthings, her stockings. He was breathless and incapable of touching her pale skin, practically glowing in the washed-out moonlight. Her torso was long and slender and elegantly muscled, adorned with pert breasts, her nipples erect and already a deep shade of pink (that matched her lips, which had been rubbed free of lipstick). She was just as he had imagined her to be, a vision of artistic perfection. He now understood why artists worshiped her, why every man she bedded was helpless to resist.

“This really is quite a nice tie.” She remarked, casually, as though this were just another evening in her parlor. She was bent over, kneeling beside the bed, and from his vantage point he couldn't see what she held in her hands- but somehow, he knew. “Arms above your head, Jack.”

He did as he was told, and she hovered over him, using his tie to restrain his hands to a small hook hidden below her headboard. Once they were tightly secured there, he tugged, wringing the silk about his wrists

. 

“Are you comfortable?” She purred, climbing onto the bed.

“Yes.”

One long, slender leg on either side of his hips, her lips floating mere inches above his own. He tried to kiss her, but she pulled away. She pinched his nipple, hard, twisting it between her fingers. He winced and gasped. “Yes?”

“Yes, Miss Fisher.” His eyes dropped to the dagger, nestled in the bedclothes beside him, a silent threat.

“You are a quick study,” She pressed a kiss to his tortured nipple, apologetic, and again to his Adams apple, the hollow of his clavicle, the taught muscle that shuddered along his side. “And so beautiful.” Her fingers traced small circles on his pectorals, skirting down to the bones of his sternum. “Do you want me to keep touching you, Jack?”

“Yes, Miss Fisher.”

She hummed with delight, her eyes fluttering closed. He watched her press another kiss to his belly, the spot where shrapnel had cut deep into his skin. She lingered there, counting each scar with her tongue. She nuzzled the trail of dark hair that clustered below his navel, leading her down to where his cock stood erect, the tip moist and begging. She exhaled, her warm breath washing over it, and he set his jaw.

“What do you want me to do, Jack?” her voice was like a dream, distant and surreal.

He struggled at his bondage, trying to twist his wrists free so that he could touch his neglected sex. A deep groan shuddered from his throat, and then the dagger was back, pressed into the soft flesh of his inner thigh, not quite piercing. “Jack, darling,” she murmured, eyes flashing in the dark. He stilled, his breath labored. “Please behave, or I will have to punish you.”

“Yes, Miss Fisher,” he growled, his throat raw.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked again, and the tip of the dagger was gone.

“Kiss me. Please.”

She hummed with satisfaction and crawled back up to him, her nipples dragging across his chest, and kissed him gently. He longed to run his fingers through her hair, feel each shiny strand against his fingertips. Instead, she touched his hair, working it out of the pomade coif and letting it fall in curls around his face.

She resumed her worship of his pimpled skin, kissing down his chest, past his navel, nipping at his hipbones. It had been so long, since Rosie, and he suddenly feared what his punishment would be if he finished before they had even begun. But before he could warn her, ask her to slow down, her mouth was on him, suckling at the head of his cock, her tongue lapping at the leaking fluids. She slid her tongue down the underside of his length, her nose pressing into the hollow between his thighs. The sight of her lips on him was nearly unbearable, and he could feel an orgasm coil beneath his belly. She took him whole into her mouth, tongue swirling at the base of his cock while the head pressed into the soft palate of her throat. She hummed, a small sound of contentment, and he felt it reverberate in his chest.

“Phryne-” he gasped, but it was too late, and he was climaxing hard, his whole body shuddering. She hummed again, swallowing down each hot stream of his release until he was soft and spent against her lips. “Phryne...”

She licked her lips and smiled wickedly at him, crawling up to release his aching wrists. “Shh.” She shushed him, pulling his free arms around her and nestling into the hollow of his shoulder. She pressed soft, feather-light kisses into the throbbing pulse of his neck, and traced delicate figure eights on his chest. “Hush, Jack. It's all right.”

He turned to face her, the lines around his mouth turned deep with worry. He glanced down at where the dagger lay on the duvet, nearly forgotten. “Jack, darling,” she purred again, dragging his eyes back to hers. “Don't worry. You have plenty of time to make it up to me.”

**Author's Note:**

> To be continued...


End file.
